Trusting the Enemy
by JantoJones
Summary: Illya receives help from an unexpected source.


Illya Kuryakin didn't need to open his eyes to know he was still a guest of THRUSH; the cold floor beneath him was testament enough. He bit back a cry as his battered body protested his attempt to roll over. Two days of 'questioning' had left him bloodied and broken, and he was in no doubt there was more to come. He decided to just lay still and wait for the next session. After a couple of minutes, a soft rasping sound gained his attention. Opening his eyes, Illya was greeted by the sight of a woman outside his cell, filing her nails.

"Angelique," he stated, with a voice heavy with exhaustion. "Just when I was beginning to enjoy it here."

"Darling, is that the way to talk to the person who has arranged your rescue?"

With an almost super-human effort, Illya managed to get himself into a sitting position, all the while ignoring the look of amusement on the other blonde's face. His brow furrowed at the strange words.

"Why would you do that?" he asked. "Aren't you afraid of **reprisal**?"

"Oh don't worry about me," Angelique purred. "As to the reason I would help a runt like you, it's purely selfish."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Illya shot back, with venom. "You wouldn't have the capacity to understand the concept of altruism."

"Oh, I understand it," she replied, with a knowing smile. "I just never saw what was in it for me."

Kuryakin couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"What will your help cost me?

Angelique, bending at the knees, lowered herself so she was at the prisoner's eye level.

"It won't cost you anything, darling," she told him. "As hard as it is for you to believe, I actually enjoy the company of dear Napoleon. Now, don't get me wrong, I would kill him if ordered. For now though, I have no qualms in using you to buy his continuing favour."

Illya didn't trust Angelique, but given his current situation, he didn't really have much more to lose.

"What is your plan?"

"Central has decided you are to be taken to a more secure facility," she explained, suddenly all business. "I am here to escort you, with the help of two guards. I have engineered for something to keep me here when it is time for you to leave, so that only the guards will be with you. At a pre-arranged point, your people will ambush the vehicle."

"You make it sound simple," Illya sneered.

"Napoleon often tells me that you're not as miserable and surly as I seem to think, yet you keep proving him wrong."

Kuryakin shrugged and smiled. "What can I say? You bring out the best in me."

Very little unnerved Angelique, but the feral, almost wolf-like, smile Illya gave her was quite chilling.

"I'll think it will be best, for this operation, if you were unconscious."

She raised the hem of her dress to reveal a small **silver **tranquiliser gun tucked into her garter. Illya didn't react to it. His body hurt, and he welcomed the oblivion of sleep.

"Say hello to Napoleon for me," she said, before sending the Russian into darkness.

When he awoke, Illya found himself looking into the worried gaze of his partner.

"Angelique says hello," he told the CEA, before anything else could be said.

"Ahhh, so that's who the mystery contact was."

Napoleon smiled at past memories of Angelique, and then the smile turned to a frown.

"You are worried about why she did this?" Illya queried.

"She never does anything unless she gains something from it," Solo replied. "I have a feeling that one of us owes her a favour, and one day soon she will come and collect."

"I fear you are right," agreed Kuryakin. "But there is little point in dwelling on. We shall burn that bridge when we come to it."

"Cross," Napoleon corrected. "We'll cross that bridge."

Although, he thought, maybe his dalliances with Angelique were a bridge which should be burned. Waverly would certainly say it was.

"Your only concern right now, Tovarisch, is to heal. You know how much I hate doing my own paperwork."

Bidding farewell to his partner, Napoleon left to apprise his boss of the new development. Watching him go, Illya couldn't help but wonder what bottle-blonde bitch was plotting.


End file.
